


In the Dreamgrove

by holhorsinaround



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 08:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17342120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holhorsinaround/pseuds/holhorsinaround
Summary: Alar meets with an... incredibly unexpected person during his recent trip to the Dreamgrove.





	In the Dreamgrove

Alar stood off to the side of the Dreamgrove's missions board where various announcements were labeled for the denizens to look through; he had torn a sheet of dried loose-leaf from the corner of the board and was reading through a help wanted advert from Val'sharah that he was certain he could have done by the next morning.   
  
Time's were funny, lately. The naga had been pushed out, the Legion had been defeated, and Azeroth... well, things were funny, lately. What with the wound within Silithus, Kul Tiras being opened for docking and trade, and everything else that Alar had been doing in his own time... including going to Darkshore, watching Teldrassil burn, being on Teldrassil as it burned... then present as Sylvanas blighted her own domain... the ritual of the Black Moon... current events were just _funny_ lately.  
  
It was far busier than normal that day with the number of druids milling around, so while he read from the loose-leaf he stepped along the dirt path and across the river, eyes cast downward to the advert in hand.   
  
He bumped into someone along the way after just passing the short bridge connecting the two sides of the river and looked up briefly to offer a mumbled apology though didn't quite look at who he'd bumped.   
  
She was an older woman, a Troll, who kept her hair long, free flowing, and wild in front of her face. He muttered a second apology and kept moving forward, eyes dropping back down to the advert he held. He continued for a number of paces before he heard a voice near to him speak up.   
  
"Ah'ki..?"  
  
Alar didn't turn around, though he recognized the word immediately. It was a name, an honorific, a pairing he had not heard in twenty years. He kept walking a few paces until the voice spoke again, louder and more persistent. He hadn't been sure he'd heard right, and surely, surely he was mistaken.   
  
"Ah'lin, dat yoo..?" The Orcish was rough, but he did look up that time at the mention of his name. He hadn't misheard, couldn't have, not this time. He hadn't heard someone say his name, his true name given to him, since he was ten. There was no reason for someone else to use it in his vicinity.  
  
He turned his head, choppy bangs of hair falling over his eyes and obscurring the dark, pitch tone of them, and looked over his shoulder to find the same older Troll woman who he had bumped into moments prior. He stood looking over his shoulder at her for a few seconds. He thought she was mistaken, but she had called him by name, and not just any name at that...   
  
He dropped his hands to his sides, fingers still around the leaflet, and turned his body to face her. He didn't notice that he staggered as he moved, though he quickly shifted his weight on his feet. His cloak flowed behind him, following his movement.  
  
The two stared at each other amidst the bustle of druids around them, each tilting their head slightly. She had long hair that matched his own in shade, though her fur was darker blue than his. He glanced his eyes across her features-- her own were amber in hue though not slitted. Not as tall as him, almost a head shorter. Round in the stomach. She looked pregnant.  
  
His lips parted as a word bubbled across his tongue, one that he hadn't used in many, many years. It caused him to pause, to hesitate as it came to his lips. His brow furrowed as he looked across at her, and he saw her own lips part.   
  
He forced the word out, his voice much more hollow and quiet than he'd expected. "Muu... ka?" His voice broke on the second syllable, causing yet another unexpected slip to the word.   
  
As he spoke it, the woman seemed to furrow her whole expression, and her lips curling against her small tusks. He thought he'd been mistaken, thought he'd angered her, until both of her hands came up to her face. Her fingers pressed against her eyes and Alar realized she had begun to cry. His mouth fell open to say something but he managed to find no words, and instead found himself in a swirl of thoughts.   
  
"Oh, mem'ki... it really be you..." she muttered, voice muffled against her palms and fingers. She had leaned forward a bit, and Alar was afraid she was either going to fall or drop to her knees. "I've been searching for you for years but had no real leads --" she has switched back from Orcish and into Zandali. Her voice, now that it wasn't chopped apart by her weak grasp of the Horde language, held a melodic sound and ring to it even when in tears.   
  
Alar found himself growing sick-- not of her, but of the swell of emotions coming over him. He felt a familiar burn rise in his stomach, but even more prevalent was the persistent heat growing across his neck. His lower lip had formed a shake, as well, and suddenly he no longer trusted his feet with his weight.   
  
"Mom, what are you... doing...?" His voice once again fell away into whispers. The word left his lips with all the confidence of a soggy slice of bread. It didn't feel right. How old had he been... ten? Or had he been eight?   
  
She wiped her bare wrist against her eyes before looking up toward Alar. It hit him finally, what she had just said. She had been looking for him. It wasn't hard to find him, not exactly, but he had done his absolute best over the years to leave no paper trail connecting to him regarding his prior professions. Not only that, but he had changed his name as soon as he'd left Matazu's care.  
  
It made sense that it had been hard for her, when comparing that to how crude her Orcish had sounded, to find him. Not even Matazu knew his name had changed. He had done damn well to make sure nobody connected the two.  
  
But... she had been looking.   
  
His eyes lowered slightly as he mulled that over. She had been looking for him. He was vaguely aware that she had taken a few steps toward him, and instead of looking at her he closed his eyes. Warmth fell across his cheeks, though he didn't immediately realize he was crying.   
  
His breath hitched in his throat as she moved one last step toward him. "Why are you here?" he repeated, more forceful if only to push the question out. He hadn't intended for it but it came out in anger. His shoulders too began to tighten, and his head had lowered an inch.   
  
"They wanted more healers, they sent for the local tribes, requesting aid... the war has put a lot of people in a need--" Her own voice sounded, to Alar, just as forced as his own even if softer. "I didn't know you were..."  
  
"A druid?" he interrupted. His tone had shifted with that, as though it were an incredulous claim.   
  
It was enough though, as she offered no response outside of silence. She had lowered her head, and as Alar opened his eyes, he found her hand raised toward his uniform.  
  
He took a step back, sudden and reflexive with the realization that he didn't want her touching him. Twenty years, had that been right? No, he realized. He wasn't thirty anymore. He had turned thirty two in December. Math, math, do the math-- twenty two years. She was staring at him and finally he focused back down at her while ignoring the people who had begun to stare at them.  
  
"You were--" His voice choked up somewhat and the words didn't come out. His gaze fell downward, away from her, and his furrowed features finally broke and relaxed. He had felt angry moments before, but now he only felt sad. The warmth returned to his cheeks, and his hand-- the one holding the paper-- rose to wipe at his tears.  
  
"You were... looking for me?" he finally asked, quiet.  
  
"Matazu... said you left her..."  
  
"I did," he replied. He'd always felt guilty, mad at himself for being such an ass to her. She had tried very hard for him, had tried very hard to be his teacher, and he had returned that by being an absolute asshole. He'd felt too embarrassed to seek her back out after reflection years down the line.  
  
"Did she help...?"  
  
"No, Ah'ki... we... we spoke little of you." He nodded, slow, but still didn't look up toward her.  
  
People continued to stare and he could feel their cold gaze on him in particular. He was larger, seemingly masculine and rather broad in his shoulders, his arms, and his chest. Surely they had assumed he'd hurt the woman standing before him, openly crying.  
  
"I didn't know you were still a druid... What do..." her voice, too, trailed off, and Alar realized they had nothing in common, nothing they could talk about. It had been over twenty years and the rift was too deep.  
  
He had begun to feel sick again.  
  
"Only... you know, in the simplist practice. Matazu taught me under Bethekk... some nature restoration." It hurt, frankly put. His mother also made an expression that showed a similar feeling. Matazu had been the worst natural healer he had ever met. Beryl had always been skilled in that respect, had been admired and praised by the tribe. She had led the arborters, who worked with land and ocean hand in hand. Who had the power to worship the rains, who could bless the growth of the forest. She had begun to teach Alar all of that and more at the earliest age that he had shown for druidic potential.  
  
"Ah'lin...?"  
  
He realized he'd gone quiet, perhaps missed a question or something she had said to him.  
  
He muttered a quiet apology, eyes casting down once more. "Mom... why were you looking for me...?"  
  
Beryl seemed to go quiet this time, unable to offer an answer to him. Her own gaze dipped downward and her expression became troubled. Alar felt a sinkin feeling move through his stomach. Even if she hadn't said anything, he already regretted asking the question. He knew he was not going to like her answer.  
  
"With... the war, Ah'lin... your father--"  
  
"I don't _care_ about my _father_!" he bellowed, interrupting her in anger. "He's a lowlife, and ungrateful! And --"  
  
"And he died a hero! For the Horde!" she answered back. They had begun to attract attention, druids raising their heads to them as his voice rose.  
  
At that he gave pause-- he gave pause and pushed himself back a step; the paper fell from his fingers and his expression fell. Father had hated the Horde. Father had thought them cowards when he was growing up.  
  
"For--"  
  
She looked up at him, surprised by his reaction. "Yes... yes, for the Warchief. Teldrassil."  
  
His stomach plummetted.   
  
When Beryl next spoke, she sounded hopeful, excited. "Ah'lin, is that you too? Your markings... they are like her and her rangers, your father would be proud--"  
  
"Fuck you!" The words, higher in pitch, exploded out of him; he took another step back, and he grasped for his hood. His markings being compared to the Dark Rangers-- to Sylvanas-- brought an anger worse than the anger he'd felt toward Elune a week after the ritual. His blood began to boil in his veins; his father, proud of him? Not on his _life_. "Fuck you, you don't know anything!"  
  
Beryl stared up at him, surprised and recoiling back from him, scared at his outburst. If he wasn't for the Horde, for his warchief, then who--  
  
"... You aren't ..."  
  
She looked to him, horrified this time. He caught her expression and lowered his eyes. The anger still burned, boiling in his stomach. But there was... there was something new. He had grown up believing he didn't need his mother in his life. He had grown up-- successful, at that, proud of himself, held actual pride in himself and his work, at who he'd become-- without needing her.  
  
Seeing her look at him with so much horror... disappointment... He started to look back up at her, his lips pulling into a grimace of shame. "Mom--"  
  
She had turned away from him and was walking back across the bridge. His hand flew up into his hair and brushed it from his eyes, his vision going dizzy, the world spinning. Sit, he needed to sit.  
  
An hour later he found himself in one of the inn bedrooms at the Grove, having thrown up his lunch.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece......... wow this piece.  
> This piece took over two years to write from start to finish and has gone through *so* many changes from its initial plot to now. It started during the events of Legion, when I held a bare bones idea of Alar's familial history. It's now changed into something... so much more raw and painful in between actually crafting Alar's tribe and writing their lore.
> 
> All in all... as painful as this was to finish, I think it's time to address it in Alar's life, and I think it came out very well.


End file.
